


(down, down, down) and the flames went higher

by fandomlver



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: I warned for violence but there isn't really any, M/M, There's barely any slash there, also vomit, be careful of that, so y'know, there is blood though, there is some torture though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3884389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme prompt. Aramis wakes in hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(down, down, down) and the flames went higher

Aramis wakes in hell.

The air is hot, and dry, and he can barely breathe. His wrists and ankles are manacled together and the shackles are uncomfortably warm against his skin. The room is pitch black, which only seems to make it hotter.

He traces the chain from his ankles to a hole in one wall. It's anchored to something on the other side, and the wall itself is hot enough to burn him when he touches it. He shuffles as far away as he can. The chain's too short to let him reach the opposite wall, so he lies on the floor instead.

He's still wearing his leathers, he realises slowly. Chained as he is, he can't get them off, but he fumbles, thick fingered, at the laces, managing to loosen them a little. He pretends it helps.

Maybe he sleeps; he can't tell. If he does, nothing has changed when he wakes, except that he feels even more miserable now. The air is pressing down on him, so heavy and thick he can feel it. He's having to work for each breath. His throat's like sandpaper and his eyes are burning. Even without moving, he's dizzy and lightheaded. He can track his heartbeat - _too-slow, too-slow, too-slow_ \- by the pounding in his head, and nausea is steadily building.

He rolls over in time to throw up, so at least he doesn't choke. But moving away from the stinking mess means moving closer to the burning wall. He moves only a few inches, but even that small distance feels much hotter. He spreads himself as wide as he can, bound as he is.

He must have slept, this time, because he's woken by a noise. A slow, steady drip. He follows it to the farthest corner. By straining as far as he can, and contorting in a way that makes his ankles bleed, he manages to get his forehead under the drip. The water's warm - at least, it's not cold - but for a few minutes it feels like heaven.

After a few minutes, though, it's not enough. It's dripping too slowly, too warm. He wants to get his hands under it; he's desperate to get his mouth under it. He needs it; he'll die without it.

The chain connecting wrists to ankles is far too short to get his hands anywhere near close enough; he can't raise them above chest level. The chain connecting ankles to the wall is only a couple of inches short, and even as he thrashes some part of him wonders how deliberate that is. He's tall; most people wouldn't get even this close, and he somehow thinks getting this close and no closer is the point.

That part of him eventually takes control and he crawls slowly, painfully, back to the burning wall, lying down there, where he can't feel the drip at all, turning his back to it. Hunching up, folding himself almost in half, he scrapes the damp off his forehead and hair, sucking up every bit of it.

The drip doesn't stop.

It must be draining somehow, because the room doesn't cool and there's no wetness on the floor. Aramis lies with his back to the corner, doing his best to ignore it. But the darkness doesn't lift and there's no noise, only the damn drip. It falls in no pattern he can trace; he finds himself holding his breath when it takes longer than usual, gasping when it's faster. Over and over he finds himself moving back towards it before he catches himself, defiantly staying away from it.

He tries counting seconds, but he finds himself counting drips instead. He tries talking to Porthos and the others, but he finds himself counting drips instead. He tries to pray, but he finds himself counting drips instead.

Breathing gets harder and harder.

There has to be air coming in somewhere; the room's not that big, he'd have suffocated by now. But he can't feel any hint of a breeze, no cool air at all. It must be hidden somewhere in the brickwork, far enough for the air to warm before it gets to him.

Drip.

Breathe.

Drip.

Breathe.

Drip.

Drip.

Breathe.

Drip. 

Drip.

Drip.

Breathe.

Drip.

Breathe.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip…

Light, and noise, and a howling wind. Aramis tries to curl in on himself, but he has nothing left. Someone curses; someone shouts. Someone touches his shoulder.

He can’t see anything. His eyes burn as he blinks repeatedly; he can’t produce tears. The room is blindingly bright, and there are figures crouching over him.

Some part of him recognises Porthos’ touch, enough not to fight when he’s picked up. They must have freed the chain on the other side of the wall; it rattles along behind them as they leave the tiny room.

He starts shivering almost at once; the air outside feels wintery sharp in comparison. Porthos holds him tighter in response. They pick their way through the room, into another, even colder, and Porthos sets him down on a bed. He does – something – and the manacles fall away, one by one. The skin underneath burns, but it’s absorbed into the pains in the rest of his body.

Athos and Porthos start stripping him in silence. He should be saying something. Teasing. Helping. They’ve done this often enough, he knows his part, but he can’t. He has nothing.

Athos vanishes briefly and comes back with a bowl. Porthos, sitting beside Aramis, takes out a strip of cloth and lays it along his arm.

Aramis arches into the touch, then away, confused. It’s _so_ cold.

“S’all right,” Porthos tells him, rubbing gently over the strip of cloth. “Feels like ice, I bet, but it’s only just cool. You’re burning, we’ve got to cool you down. Try and bear it, all right? It’ll start to feel better soon.”

Athos reappears – when did he vanish? – and lays a wet, cool blanket over Aramis’ lower body, making sure it’s tucked in around his groin. Sitting on the edge of the bed, opposite Porthos, he joins him in laying cloths along Aramis’ arms and chest.

Aramis hazes in and out while they patiently swap cloths. Porthos dribbles water into his mouth whenever he’s anything approaching conscious, giving him only drops at a time no matter how much he whines. Athos talks quietly, endlessly, streams of words saying nothing at all; every time he stops, Aramis starts listening for the drip again, and even if they don’t know why they can see how distressed it makes him.

He adjusts to the light. His throat gradually eases; after a while Porthos feeds him willow bark and then goes back to water, and his head stops pounding. His breathing steadies. They very carefully wash and dress his wrists and ankles; Porthos clucks over the blood on his ankles. His wrists are only – _only_ , he thinks wryly – mildly burned.

Athos tests his temperature, frowning in concentration. “Better,” he murmurs. “How do you feel?”

Aramis considers it carefully. “Heavy,” he says finally.

“Hot, cold?”

“Nothing.”

Athos nods, accepting that. “You feel better, your colour’s better, breathing and heartbeat all good.”

Aramis smiles faintly. “Make a medic of you yet.”

“Something had to rub off on him,” Porthos says lightly. He’s still absently running a finger up and down Aramis’ arm.

Aramis swallows, relishing that simple motion. “Where are we?”

“Craftmans quarter,” Porthos tells him. “We were investigating rumours of smuggling, do you remember?”

“Sort of.” He remembers the mission, vaguely, but not what they’d been doing.

“We must’ve pissed someone off. We’re in a blacksmith’s; that space was designed to trap all the heat and fry anyone who was left in there.”

“An oubliette,” Athos says quietly.

Aramis shudders, reaching for Porthos, nestling against him. “How did you find me?”

“The apprentice. He’d been uncomfortable with his master for some time; your chain was attached on this side and when he saw it moving, he realised something had to be wrong. Treville’s promised to find him another place. He risked a lot by coming to tell us.”

Aramis nods. He’s exhausted now, barely awake; he reaches for Athos, deliberately wrapping his hands in Athos’ tunic. “Stay.”

“Always,” Athos promises, settling beside him. Aramis is nestled between them, and maybe it should feel claustrophobic but it only feels safe, familiar. “We’re here.”

“Talk,” he says pleadingly, feeling himself sink, “don’t want silence.”

He’ll have to explain that one later, he knows, but for now it doesn’t matter. Porthos and Athos talk quietly – he doesn’t know what they’re talking about, they might be reciting training manuals for all he knows, but that doesn’t matter. They’re solid beside him, comforting, and he lets himself fall, knowing they’ll be there when he wakes.

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of cold fics on here so how about more heat ones?  
> Aramis centric please. Trapped for hours/days (closet/or attic or storage of a blacksmith or furnace possibly? Glass ceiling or boiler room if modern au?)  
> Weak and dehydrated and suffering from heat exhaustion when his brothers get to him.  
> Writers choice as to where and why and how etc but OT3 preferred and lots of fluff and comfort.


End file.
